


Quite the Collection

by Asidian



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, Cock Rings, Cock Tease, Edging, Hand Jobs, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 23:41:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11390853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian
Summary: An elegant hand cups the side of Prompto’s jaw, gently – slides around to below his chin, to tip his face up. Then Ignis is leaning down to kiss Prompto stupid, not that it takes much. Just an insinuating glance in his direction is enough to make Prompto feel like his brains are melting out his ears. When Iggy actually sets hands on him? That’s it, game over. RIP rational thought.Prompto’s still not sure what the smartest, sexiest, most incredibly put-together man he’s ever laid eyes on sees in him, but hey. He’s not complaining. He’ll take whatever he can get, for as long as it lasts.





	Quite the Collection

**Author's Note:**

> The amazingly talented [Kaciart](http://kaciart.tumblr.com) was kind enough to draw me art for this fic. Please check it out in the end notes! 
> 
> This fill was for the lovely anon on the kink meme who requested:
> 
> I saw somewhere on Tumblr that Prompto would have the most sex toys out of all the boys and I would like to read how much he wrecks himself with dildos, vibrators, plugs, literally everything. 
> 
> +If he's going solo, he uses a pretty large vibrating dildo.  
> +He uses a cock ring on himself to deny his orgasm multiple times.  
> +If he's with someone else, that person ties him up so he can't touch himself and he begs to be fucked.  
> +If OT4, let them all wreck him with his toys and their cocks  
> +Prompto is so blissed out from all the attention

"This is quite the collection," says Ignis.

He says it without a hint of inflection, and his face – his stupid, pretty face – is blank as an empty notebook. It's a diplomat thing, Prompto's sure. It's got to be. No one else he knows can turn off any tiny hint as to what they're thinking that way, like flipping a switch.

"It's uh," says Prompto, shifting awkwardly. "Not all that big."

"Hm," says Ignis, thoughtfully. He leans forward to peer down at the items arranged on a towel on the bed.

Prompto shifts again. His mouth's as dry as the desert, and his palms are sweating, and his heart feels like it's going twenty times faster than is really healthy.

This was a bad idea.

"Look," says Prompto, aware that his face is burning and that he's probably the bright tomato red he turns when he wishes the ground would crack open beneath his feet and swallow him whole. "Let's forget it. Okay?"

He bends down to scoop his duffel bag up off the floor, intending to stuff everything away again. Maybe after that, he'll run screaming into the streets of Lestallum, far from the hotel room where he was supposed to be having mind-blowing sex with the hottest man ever to walk the face of Eos after an excruciating week of sharing a tent with three other dudes and decidedly not having sex with anyone.

Lestallum has bars, right? Maybe he can get smashed and creep back in at 2 am, long after Iggy's asleep and can't fix him with that look again. Noct and Gladio never need to know – well, more than they already know. Noct did press the extra hotel room key into Prompto's palm and pat him on the shoulder and say, "Happy early birthday, buddy." And Gladio did fix him with a smirk and send him off with a, "Try and keep it down this time, huh?"

But they don't need to know _this_. They don't need to know anything about this moment, or his humiliated retreat, or why he's never going to be able to look Ignis in the eye ever, ever again.

Prompto unzips the duffel bag. He makes a grab for the first thing spread out on the towel.

Ignis' hand closes on his wrist. "And if I don't wish to forget it?"

Prompto glances up – finds himself on the receiving end of a look that's all smoldering intent and blatant interest. He swallows. His mouth's still dry, and his palms are still sweating, but this time it's for a whole different reason.

"Then I guess," says Prompto, slowly, "we keep going?"

Ignis' lips curl up at the corner, the hint of a smile. "I was hoping you'd say that."

An elegant hand cups the side of Prompto's jaw, gently – slides around to below his chin, to tip his face up. Then Ignis is leaning down to kiss Prompto stupid, not that it takes much. Just an insinuating glance in his direction is enough to make Prompto feel like his brains are melting out his ears. When Iggy actually sets hands on him? That's it, game over. RIP rational thought. 

Prompto's still not sure what the smartest, sexiest, most incredibly put-together man he's ever laid eyes on sees in him, but hey. He's not complaining. He'll take whatever he can get, for as long as it lasts.

What he can get, right now, consists of kisses – long and slow and exploratory. What he can get involves crowding in for more, and shivering in appreciation when Ignis slides an arm around his waist to draw Prompto even closer. What he can get includes running his fingers beneath the straps of the most distracting pair of suspenders to ever exist.

Ignis pulls back, just slightly, to huff a quiet laugh. "Eager, are you?"

"Yeah, well," says Prompto. "You try spending all week watching you run around in these things." He tugs a little – feels the contrast between the crisp cotton of the shirt and the elastic of the suspenders. "You'd get worked up, too."

Ignis glances down at him, expression decidedly interested. "Need I remind you," he says, "that your sleep attire consists of nothing save for a pair of shorts?"

And that's – Prompto's not sure how he feels about that. While he's been fighting down the awkwardest of awkward boners every damn day, trying not to notice the way those suspenders cut such a clean line through the trim, striped dress shirt, Ignis has been eyeing... him? In his dumb chocobo print sleep shorts?

Okay, yeah. Prompto's pretty sure he's blushing again. Even his ears are burning.

"Great," he says. "Cool. So we've both wanted to drag each other off into the back seat of the Regalia all week." Ignis arches a single eyebrow, wryly amused, and Prompto ducks his head because, oops, guess it's a day for all kinds of fantasies to come tumbling out of his mouth. " _Anyway_ ," he says. "Can we, like, get this show on the road?"

Ignis pauses for just a beat. "Get things rolling?" he suggests.

Prompto feels the smile tugging at his lips. "Rev our engines?"

"I'll do my best to ensure a smooth ride."

Prompto's flat out grinning, now. And man, if he could come up with a car pun to get Iggy to take his shirt off, he'd be all over it, but his mind's drawing a blank, and they've been standing here talking since Solheim got wiped off the map, so he just goes for the buttons and says, "I'm gonna hold you to that," and lets his fingers drift on down the line, laying open a swath of bare skin.

Then comes the best part: slipping his hand under the suspenders, so carefully, and easing them down first one arm and then the other. He maybe shivers a little when he does it. Gods, those things are twenty times hotter than they have any right to be.

"Will you?" Ignis muses, tone gone smoky and smooth. "Then we'd best get started. I would so hate to disappoint." He unclips the suspenders and sets them down on the bed, near Prompto's collection.

Then he takes a step back and looks Prompto over – thorough and analytical, like he's a tactical map or a trade report. "Go ahead and take everything off," he says.

Prompto nods, trying not to look too eager. He hooks his thumbs under his shirt and pulls it up over his head – tosses it on the back of the chair. Next come his pants, hands shaky on the zipper, and then the underwear, and sweet Six, how is he that hard already? Iggy's barely touched him.

Then Ignis says, "Splendid. Get yourself comfortable on the bed, won't you?" and he's sure he knows, because that voice is pure, distilled sex, and it would take a stronger man than he not to be past ready to get drilled into the mattress.

Prompto tells himself that he will not dive onto the bed. For one, that is super lame. For two, that would probably send dildos flying everywhere, and that would mean stopping to pick them up, and _that_ would mean it takes longer to get those dildos actually in him. So Prompto does his best impression of someone who has not been dreaming of this moment all week and crawls onto the bed in a somewhat dignified manner.

"Like this?" he says.

Ignis' eyes sweep over him again. "Just so," he says, and approaches the side of the bed. "Now, since this may take some time, we'll need insurance, I think."

"What kind of insurance?" says Prompto.

Ignis picks up the discarded suspenders. "Hands above your head," he says. "Up near the headboard."

And that – okay, yeah. Prompto is pretty sure that that particular combination of words, in that particular order, is the hottest thing he has ever heard or will ever hear spoken. Between his legs, his cock gets ever harder, and he puts his hands up so fast his knuckles smack against the headboard.

Ignis winds the suspenders through the metal posts that form the top of the bed, pulling them just tight enough so that Prompto can feel them. He checks his work when he finishes – tugs at Prompto's hands, a brief test to ensure they hold. "That should do."

"Yeah," Prompto agrees, a bit dazed. "Not going anywhere."

"Now," says Ignis, and turns toward the various devices laid out on the bed. "Where shall we begin?"

"Anywhere," Prompto tells him, urgently – and catches the smile he gets in response, fond and amused.

Ignis' long fingers trail over the selections; his eyes are trained downward. "Adventurous," he remarks of one. "Ambitious," of another.

But at last he comes to a stop over a series of leather straps and metal. "Perhaps we'll begin with this," says Ignis. "After all, we wouldn't want this to end before we've gotten through the lot of them."

Prompto sputters. "Wait – _everything_?

"Certainly," says Ignis, calm and composed. "Unless you've an objection? We do have all evening."

Prompto swallows.

_Everything_. It's not, like, marathon-length; he had to leave some of his collection back in Insomnia. But still, it's a lot. He'd thought they were going to be staying in Altissia for at least six months, after the wedding, so he packed accordingly. 

It's enough that he was embarrassed to show it to Ignis in the first place.

Prompto knows he'd never have the patience to get through everything on his own. But he doesn't have to. He has Iggy, and Iggy's nothing if not maddeningly, devastatingly thorough in bed.

"Okay," he says. "Let's do it." As soon as he sees Ignis smile, closed-lipped and frightfully wicked, he knows he's made the right choice.

Ignis peels his gloves off, first one and then the other. And damn him, he makes a show of it, because he knows from past experience exactly how much those gloves turn Prompto on. There's something about his hands, encased in supple leather, slender and elegant, with just the knuckles showing. There something about him easing his fingers free, one at a time, with excruciating showmanship, before folding them up and setting them to one side.

Then he takes Prompto's cock in one hand, deliberately – just holding, no pressure or friction or any of the hundred and fifty thousand things Prompto wants like, right now.

It takes some work to get the cock ring into place. Rings would be more accurate, really. One rests at the base of Prompto's cock, three in the center, and one just under the head – smooth, cold steel. They're connected by black strips of leather, and the leather extends past the final ring, where it fits snugly around Prompto's balls, pulling them away from his body.

In theory, he knows cock rings don't actually prevent guys from coming – just help hold it off. In practice, he's never, ever managed to get off while this thing's on him, and he's tried. Extensively. On several occasions.

It's going to be a long night, Prompto thinks. He licks his lips, and tries not to rock up into the feeling of Ignis' hands on him.

"Comfortable?" says Ignis, smoothly, when he's finished.

"Yeah," says Prompto, already a bit breathless. "Just great."

Prompto's eyes follow Iggy down toward the foot of the bed, watch his hands trail over the assortment of toys there – lingering, and then slowing, and then stopping.

"Shall we work our way up?" he asks, mildly, like he's inquiring about tomorrow's weather forecast.

The vibrator in his hands is slim and blue, the head ridged and textured. It doesn't do much to fill him up, but Prompto knows from experience exactly how powerful the vibrations are on the higher settings. 

He squirms against the blankets. "Dude," he says. "If you keep stopping, I might actually melt before we finish this."

Ignis laughs, then – warm and soft and liquid, and the sound may well be the most unfairly sexy thing Prompto has ever heard.

He's still busy replaying it in his mind when Ignis presses the button on the end of the vibrator, and then holds it right against the tip of Prompto's cock.

Prompto jerks involuntarily – makes a soft sound of approval. Ignis circles it around the head, not once or twice, but probably ten or fifteen times. Then he trails it down the length of him, over the sensitive flesh exposed between the metal bars of the cock rings.

"Gods," says Prompto, appreciative.

Ignis must take that as his cue. He presses the button again twice more, to turn it up – holds the tip of the vibrator, firmly, right on the slit of Prompto's cock.

"My goodness," Ignis remarks. "Powerful little thing, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Prompto pants. "It's got a few tricks." He wonders, distantly, if he really wants Ignis to find the next setting up – so of course that's when Ignis finds the next setting up. The vibration goes dead silent, then starts out low – ramps up slowly, until it reaches a peak, and then begins again.

Ignis lets it go through a good five cycles before he clicks it off.

Prompto almost groans when he sets it aside – then decides, abruptly, that he doesn't mind losing it when Ignis reaches for the lube.

"Sensitizing?" he reads from the bottle.

Prompto can feel himself blushing, even though he is literally naked and tied to a headboard and should, logically, be past that stage at this point. "It kinda tingles," he says.

"I see," says Ignis, and squirts a generous dollop into his palm. He inserts the finger of the other hand into the wet spot – drags it through and rubs it between his fingers. Abruptly, Prompto wishes he had finished getting Ignis' shirt off before he got tied up. The only better sight than Ignis trailing his fingers through the lube that he's about to do wicked things with would be a shirtless Ignis doing the same.

Prompto's expecting Ignis to start working him open. He's not expecting those slender fingers, now slick with lube, to close around his cock and give a few deliberate pulls. It covers every available inch of exposed skin, and Prompto hisses a breath in when the feel of it, cold and hot both at once, starts to wash over him.

"Dude," says Prompto. "Not fair."

Ignis only smiles at him, wry and amused, and proceeds to slick the little blue vibrator up as well. "Oh?" says Ignis. "I wasn't aware there were rules to be broken."

"Sure there are," Prompto pants. "Rule one: quit driving me crazy."

"I'm afraid we've no hope of adhering to that one."

The blue vibrator presses inside, slowly – seeking. Only about two inches of it are insertable, and it's only about as wide around as Prompto's thumb, but Prompto knows from experience that that's plenty. He takes a slow breath in and spreads his legs wider, giving Ignis more room to work. He waits as Ignis rotates the device, searching for one spot in particular.

_There_ is it.

Prompto hisses through his teeth as sparks of pleasure shoot through him, bright as the fireworks displays Altissia's rumored to have. But Ignis doesn't let up – once he's got it in place, he holds it there, rubs it there, works the spot relentlessly until Prompto starts to rock into it.

Then he turns the vibrator back on.

"Oh, gods," Prompto breathes.

He bites down on his lip and lets his eyes fall closed – lets Ignis work him higher and higher, until he's way past aroused and straight into so-damn-hard-it-aches. Hi cock's throbbing, trapped in the metal rings; the lube makes it feel like every tiny air current caressing him is icy-sharp.

Then Ignis turns the vibrator off again and gently slides it out.

"Anyone ever tell you that you're kind of a sadist?" Prompto manages, when he thinks he can take a full breath again.

"Why no," says Ignis. "But I'll take it as a compliment, given the situation."

Prompto's all eyes as Ignis returns to the line of toys. It feels like the power of life and death is in those well-groomed hands, lingering and then carrying on and then circling back again.

When he selects something ovular and black, like an egg with a narrow rubber tail and a loop attached, Prompto licks at his lips and lets his legs drift wider – but Iggy's not done, yet. He grabs the nipple clamps, too, and the dusky pink cylinder of the rubber stroker.

"You're gonna kill me," says Prompto, and shifts against the blankets. "You know that, right?"

"Oh, come now," says Ignis, and pumps the lube bottle, filling up the cylinder until it glistens and then coating the egg. "Don't be so dramatic."

Ignis smears some of the lube on each of Prompto's nipples, and he just has time to register the cool-hot rush it induces before Ignis attaches the first clamp.

Pleasure shoots through him – borderline pain, the pressure almost too much. He has the padded clamps, because he tried the bare ones and couldn't take them. Even these leave his nipples feeling swollen and raw the day after, every brush of his shirt reminding him what he was doing the night before. 

He's never tried them with the lube before. It's kind of amazing.

Ignis affixes the second one, and maybe Prompto makes some kind of noise. He's not sure. All he knows is that one of Iggy's hands – the lube-free one – comes up to card through his hair. "All right?" he murmurs.

Prompto nods, and shifts against the blankets again, more urgently this time. "Hurry it up, dude."

Ignis presses a kiss to his cheek, a warm brush of lips. Then he pulls back and reaches between Prompto's legs.

It takes a little more work to get the egg in; it's wide where the vibrator was slender, and Prompto feels himself stretch around the edges to take it. Ignis works it up, and up, until it nudges the spots that had him seeing fireworks before. Then he flicks the remote on, and it buzzes to life, the lowest setting.

And gods, that's gonna drive him crazy. He knows from experience that just this isn't enough to get him off. It's his warm-up toy, usually, to get him worked up until he's good and ready. It's not enough to tip him over, though, especially on the lowest setting – extra especially with the cock rings.

That's not all Iggy has in mind, though. 

He kneels on the bed, beside Prompto – pulls Prompto's poor neglected cock away from his stomach, where it's twitching and already red. Then he sets the stroker so that the opening just barely brushes the tip of Prompto's cock.

Prompto waits for him to lower it –  to start with the teasing rhythm he's sure is coming – but Ignis never does. Instead he says, "You don't intend to make me do all the work, surely."

Prompto laughs, kind of breathless. So that's how they're gonna play this.

"Guess not," he says. "Since you asked so nice." He flashes Ignis a shaky grin – gets his legs up under him as best he can, for leverage.

Then he rocks up into the tight rubber channel, letting the supple rubber fingers on the inside tickle all along the length of him.

It's fantastic. It's tight and clinging, and the lube makes the whole thing deliciously slick. His cock is tingling, the hot-cold an added level of sensation on top of the low-level hum against his prostate and the almost-too-much pressure on his nipples. Prompto groans, and lets his head fall back against the pillow. Then he realizes that position kills his leverage, and he straightens up again.

He rolls his hips up, again and again. To get the height he needs, though, he's got to lift with his legs, and it's not long before he's trembling with the exertion. He goes on for – he's not sure. A while. Maybe five minutes, or maybe ten. It's all not quite enough; he can't get the angle he wants from here, or the speed, or the pressure. The only sound is the squelch of his cock trying to bury itself into soft, welcoming rubber and the ragged gasps of his own breathing.

"Iggy," says Prompto, at last. "Come on. Help a guy out."

But abruptly, Ignis decides that it's enough. He takes the stroker away, and Prompto falls back to the blankets, trembling. "Gods," he manages, distantly. "How many are left?"

Ignis actually chuckles as he tugs the loop to ease the egg back out, and Prompto lets his head flop back against the pillow, trying to get enough air. "You did pack them," says Ignis, sounding way too damn amused. "Surely you know better than I."

He does know. He knows that there are five.

What he _doesn't_ know is whether he can make it through five. Usually when he jerks off, he goes rough and quick until it all comes to a crashing crescendo. That's why he bought the cock ring in the first place – cause he knows damn well he's bad at waiting, if he doesn't have something to keep him from ending things too soon.

Only now, he has no choice. Only now, his hands are tied up with the sexiest suspenders ever to exist, and his hot-as-hell boyfriend is right there in front of him with his button-up dress shirt open, bare skin peeking through, completely out of reach. Only now, he wants nothing more than for Ignis to crawl on top of him and pound him into the mattress until he screams, and by the line of the erection visible through Ignis' slacks, he probably wants the same thing.

Prompto shifts – licks his lips. He says, "We could skip a couple. I won't tell."

Ignis smiles again, too damn knowing. He reaches a hand down to give Prompto's cock a few slow pumps. "That," he declares primly, "would be cheating."

The pace picks up. Ignis tightens his grip and really goes at it, palming the head on the upstroke. Prompto makes an undignified noise, and then another. His back arches off the bed, hard, and he bites his lip, to keep from getting too loud. He's never come with the cock rings on, but hell if he doesn't feel like he's about to now. That familiar heat's low in his stomach, tight and coiling tighter. He'd probably have shot off already, if those damn rings weren't holding him back. As it is, he feels himself creeping closer and closer to what he's sure must be some inevitable tipping point.

Then Ignis lets go.

Prompto's breath leaves him all in a rush, like he's been punched. He whines, low in his throat. "Iggy," he says. "Iggy. C'mon, don't – don't stop."

"Five left," Ignis tells him, and pats him familiarly on the thigh. Then he steps away again, and toward the line of toys. 

Next up, Prompto sees, is a series of small black balls, attached to a loop like the egg had been. They're all smaller than the egg, individually – but there are seven of them, and Prompto knows exactly how full he gets when they're all inside, shifting around.

His mouth is dry with anticipation as he watches slender fingers lube the balls, one after the next – and when Ignis approaches, Prompto spreads his legs a bit too eagerly to accept them.

The first one sliding in feels like barely anything. It's smaller than the egg, and Prompto rocks up, wanting more. Ignis is watching his face intently, and Prompto bites his lip, trying not to look too embarrassingly enthusiastic.

The second ball slides in just as easy – still not enough, but something, at least. The third nudges them up higher, and by the forth, he's really starting to feel it. Five and six pack him in good; every rock of his hips shift them around, and one of them, luck or misfortune, he's not sure, is right on top of his prostate, a constant, dull pressure.

"C'mon," he says, and his voice comes out soft and desperate. "C'mon. Just put it in already."

Ignis doesn't put it in. He reaches down to tug gently at the clamps still on Prompto's nipples, and the spike of pleasure-pain that jolts through him shoots straight to his cock. It _throbs_ , trapped there in the metal bands. He's actually leaking precome now, slick drops trailing down from the head.

Prompto whines and trembles. Ignis tugs again, more insistently this time, and with his other hand he shoves in the final ball.

There's nothing on his cock. There's nothing on his cock, but hell if he isn't rocking his hips up into the air anyway, like some source of friction is going to magically appear and get him off. 

Ignis eases the ball out again, slow pressure and gentle withdrawal. Then he works it back in, taking the loop attached to the bottom and twisting. Prompto feels them shift inside him – feels the one against his prostate catch and drag. He makes a noise at the back of his throat, and he spreads his legs wider. "Iggy," he says. "Can we –  Can you –" He swallows, throat dry as the dusty landscape outside Hammerhead. " _Touch_ me."

But Ignis, it seems, is not taking requests. Or maybe he's like some evil djinn that twists wishes around, because he runs his clean hand up Prompto thigh, slow and insinuating, and rests it on his hip, just out of reach of where Prompto actually wants it. He leaves it there while he works the balls out again, one at a time, until there's nothing left, and Prompto is panting and empty.

"One down," says Ignis, smoothly. "Four to go."

He's going to die. His heart's going to burst. His cock's harder than it's ever been in his life, and Ignis is reaching for the sleek, black dildo. It's hard plastic – ridged and textured. This one's long but not especially thick, and Prompto's so very, very ready for it. He's past ready for it. He was ready for it a hundred years ago, before he ever existed. He was ready for it when the Astrals still walked Eos, having their war.

He's got his feet planted on the mattress, legs spread wide, waiting for Ignis to get done with the lube. He bites his lip when it brushes his entrance – groans like he's dying when Iggy eases in just the tip and then takes it back out again.

"Iggy," he gasps, and Ignis finally relents.

Prompto rocks up to meet it as it eases home, eyes fluttering closed. It's not the highest tech toy he has, but there's something about the curve and the ridges that just does it for him. And oh, gods, with Iggy holding onto it, does it _ever_ do it.

Ignis strikes up a rhythm right away, and Prompto feels like it's scratching an itch inside him, some deep-seated need that's radiating out to consume him. He loses track of time – loses track of everything, except the slide of the dildo, and the incredible expression on Ignis' face, and the need coiled up in his own body. He's aware, distantly, when he hears the pump of the lube – aware, much more urgently, when Ignis' other hand smears it over his balls, then takes his cock in hand and starts to pump again, grip too loose, touch teasing.

The tingle of the lube spreads; the fingers on the length of him is frustratingly, maddeningly not quite enough.

Prompto keens, and jerks, and tugs at the suspenders holding him to the bed. If he was free, he'd reach down and get himself off, and it would probably only take about five seconds flat, because sweet Six, he is so damn hard.

It's there again, rising up within his reach: pleasure so hot it's burning, crawling there under his skin, just out of reach. He's sure he's about to come, cock rings or no cock rings. He can't conceive of this much pressure, this much heat, with no outlet.

But on the out stroke, Ignis suddenly stops. He doesn't push the dildo back in, and his hand comes away from Prompto's cock, and it takes every last scrap of willpower Prompto possesses not to outright sob in frustration.

"Iggy," Prompto says. "Iggy. Don't – why are you stopping?"

"Hush," Ignis tells him, not unkindly. "I'm only switching. Three left."

He feels the next toy at his entrance almost immediately – the hot pink one, wide and curved, a fake set of hot pink balls at its base. It looks frankly ridiculous. It feels so damn good Prompto doesn't care. 

He has a moment to appreciate that Ignis doesn't wait, but pushes straight in. It goes without difficulty, sliding in with frankly copious amounts of lube. This one's thicker than the last one – fills him better. Prompto rocks back against it, and Ignis complies, thrusting it in hard and fast. He works it tirelessly, free hand petting Prompto's thigh while he shakes and shivers. Those elegant fingers trail upward, over Prompto's hip; they find the little puddle of precome his cock has drooled onto his stomach and trail through it thoughtfully – gently.

Prompto's mind short-circuits a little at the warring sensations: that soft, barely there touch and the dildo inside him, thick and hard and good, slamming in like Iggy's trying to fuck him senseless. Prompto's head lolls back; he's gasping open-mouthed, trying to get enough air.

Ignis keeps it up for what feels like years but is probably only a few minutes. He keeps it up until Prompto's skin is so hot he feels like he may actually burn alive. May actually, genuinely, explode into a fiery ball of death if Ignis doesn't let him come right now.

This is it. He's solved the mystery of spontaneous combustion.

But no: Ignis pulls this dildo away, too. And Prompto, unfairly, against all odds, survives it – cock twitching and desperate, chest heaving and eyes closed.

"Almost done," Ignis tells him, and strokes a hand through his hair. "Only two left."

Prompto says, "Oh gods," plaintive and pathetic.

There's a pause; Ignis' hands disappear. A moment later, something presses to his lips, and Prompto opens his eyes to find a bottle of water there. He takes a sip, and then another; Ignis strokes through his hair again. "Ready?" says Ignis.

Prompto _wants_ like he's never wanted anything before. His cock is absolutely aching with the need for something to touch it.

"I am way past ready," Prompto says. "Like way, _way_ past ready." Ignis outright smirks. Then he sets the water on the bedside table and circles back around to the foot of the bed.

Prompto knows from experience exactly how quickly this next one can tear him apart, and he can't quite take his eyes off the shape of it while Ignis slicks it up with lube – not, Prompto reflects, that he probably needs much lube anymore. The inside of his thighs feel wet and sloppy, and he's sure he's got enough in him by now that he could take whatever Iggy throws his way.

But no: Ignis is nothing if not thorough, so Prompto has to watch as slender fingers caress the length of what's coming next.

It's an odd shape, an undulating sort of curve – girthy, but not terribly long. From the end, two narrow tendrils protrude, one curling up toward the insertable portion of the toy, and the other curling out and away.

When it came in the mail, ordered guiltily from a catalog and delivered to his doorstep in Insomnia, Prompto had taken one look at it and wondered how the hell it was even supposed to work.

Now he knows. Ignis, apparently, knows too.

He slips it in with attentive care, eyes on Prompto's face while he adjusts it.

And, _there_ it is: the blunt, pointed tip rests right against his prostate, and the tendril that curls inward rests right against his perineum, and Prompto's mouth falls open just to feel it slide into place. Then Ignis lets go – just leaves him to it.

He can, with this toy. That's the hell of it. It does all the work on its own; all Prompto has to do is shift the right away.

And right now, Prompto's pretty sure he couldn't keep still if he tried.

He's already clenching around it before Ignis takes his hands away, a rhythmic press and release that drives the thing firmly against his prostate. Prompto whimpers, low in his throat, and tells himself he's still got one toy left; he's not going to be allowed to get off like this.

He's only teasing himself, making it worse. He should stop – but he can't. He just can't.

And Ignis, the ghost of a smile on his lips, has both hands free to do whatever he wants with them. He trails them up Prompto's thighs, then hips, then abdomen, skirting by his untouched cock. He lets them drift to Prompto's nipples – gently circles the nubs that are still held tight in the padded clamps.

Prompto shifts again, and again, and again, drowning in the pleasure washing through him. His fingers scrabble at the headboard, holding on like it will keep him from coming apart at the seams.

Ignis takes the first clamp off, and the sensation as the blood rushes back into it just about fries Prompto's brain. The second clamp follows bare seconds later, and Prompto groans, heartfelt and wanting.

Ignis leans in, deliberately slow. He blows, softly, against first one nipple and then the other.

The sensation shoots through Prompto like a summer lightning storm: the hot-cold of the lube, and the prickling relief from the pressure of the clamps, and the constant, unrelenting press against his prostate. Prompto can feel tears burning at the corners of his eyes. His breath hitches. He can feel his orgasm building, low in his stomach.

He's going to come all over himself without a hand on his cock, he's sure.

But Ignis must have some kind of sixth sense, because no sooner has Prompto thought it than one of those well-groomed hands is reaching down, implacable, to ease the toy from inside of him.

Prompto outright keens.

"Iggy," he babbles, "Iggy, please. _Please_."

"Only one to go," Ignis tells him, soothingly. He smooths a hand down Prompto's stomach, touch gentle.

Prompto's chest is heaving; his fingers open and close, uselessly, on thin air. His cock has formed an actual, sizable puddle of precome on his stomach, so much that he knows he ought to be humiliated. Ought to be – but Prompto is way, way past caring.

"Okay," Prompto says. "One left. Let's go. Let's – why are you waiting?"

And Ignis _is_ waiting. He's just sitting there, eyes on Prompto, gaze dark with want, taking in his face, and the lines of his body, and the way his cock's straining, trapped in the rings. It would be hot, if Prompto wasn't 170% ready for him to move already. It's hot anyway, and that just makes it worse.

Ignis leans in to kiss him, then – slow and languid, damnably unhurried.

It's the first contact in what must be hours that Prompto's had any sort of control over, and he leans into it like a drowning man getting his first taste of air.

Ignis is trying to make it sweet and teasing; Prompto's all about hot and fast and demanding. They end up meeting somewhere in the middle, in an awkward clash that somehow manages to turn him on even more.

He can feel Ignis' hand wandering while his mouth is occupied – a gentle touch that trails up and down Prompto's side, tender and careful and nowhere near where Prompto wants it to be. He makes a sound into the kiss, something that's trying to be a moan but comes out closer to a whimper.

Then Ignis pulls away. "I suppose," he says, "that we'd best get on with it."

" _Yes_ ," says Prompto. "Yes, go, do it. If you don’t move like five minutes ago, I'm gonna lose my damn mind."

Ignis laughs at him, low and amused – and Prompto wants to resent him for that, really he does, but any ill will is washed away by the fact that he circles around to get the final vibrator and slick it up with lube.

It's kind of unfair that he saved the best one for last. Because of course he did.

It's purple, the biggest toy Prompto owns: thick and long and textured, with twenty different settings. It took him for-freaking-ever to save up for the thing, and he remembers thinking when he first opened up the box that it had better be worth it.

Then he'd tried it, and all doubt was washed away.

He watches Ignis work the vibrator over with a lube-slicked hand, his own cock giving a hopeful, sympathetic twitch at the sight. Then he watches as Ignis brings it over and positions it between his legs.

Prompto doesn't wait for him to get started. He just pushes back, trying to get it in. And Ignis, for a wonder, lets him do as he pleases – lets him pant and press, the sheer girth of the toy taking his breath away as it fills him up inch by slow inch.

When Prompto reaches the end of his leverage, he tips his head back, biting down on his lip. The toy's still only half-seated, but that's the most he can reach right now, not unless Ignis decides to cut him a break and help out. He pulls back as best he's able, then shoves down again. It's shallow, but it's motion, and Prompto will take what he can get. His body feels absolutely starved for contact.

He's got to look pathetic – stretched out as far as the ties will let him go, fucking himself halfway on a massive purple vibrator. Prompto rocks his hips like his life depends on it, and it still isn't enough. It's not _in_ far enough to hit anything interesting.

"Oh gods, Iggy. C'mon—give a guy a _break_."

Those, apparently, are the magic words. On Prompto's next down thrust, Ignis presses the toy in to meet him. And finally – finally – he's full. Not just a little bit, but all the way, packed full, so full he can taste it at the back of his teeth. He groans, some mix of frustration and satisfaction. And of course, that's exactly when Ignis turns the vibrator on.

It starts in low, a soft hum that doesn't do much, but Ignis doesn't waste any time in cycling through.

He tries out every single one of the twenty settings, a full minute for each – just leaves Prompto there, vibrator fully seated, feeling every last twitch and buzz and pulsating pattern. By the fifth setting, Prompto knows damn well where he's going with this.

By the tenth, he's begging Ignis to just grab hold and fuck him with it.

By the fifteenth, his cock is absolutely weeping precome, and he feels like he's been riding the knife's edge of an orgasm for actual years. But every time Ignis changes the pattern, it throws off the build just a little – just enough that he can't quite get there.

By the twentieth, he just can't even keep still. He's squirming and pulling at the suspenders that hold him to the headboard, hips rocking up in search of some kind of friction. He's sure he's a hair's breadth away from tipping over the edge – sure that one good thrust, or one firm stroke to his cock would send him spiraling out of control.

That's when Ignis turns the vibrator off. He eases it out, with infinite care, and Prompto collapses back against the pillow like a puppet with cut strings, eyes closed, chest heaving. His cock gives a long twitch against his stomach, and then another. A sizable dollop of precome squeezes out.

He feels so  _empty_.

"That's the last of them," says Ignis.

Prompto slits his eyes open again. He licks at his lips. "That mean you're finally gonna come join me?"

Ignis tips his head to one side, as though considering. "If you're certain you don't need a break."

Prompto stares at him like he's just announced the world is ending. "Don't you dare."

There it is again: that chuckle, low and rich like caramel. But Ignis is reaching for the buttons of his own slacks, easing them open and then working his erection free from the trim, black confines of his underwear.

He's hard, and Prompto can see how he shivers at the feeling of his own hand. When he reaches for the lube, slicking some over the length of his cock, he shivers again, harder this time.

Prompto knows how he feels. The damn lube's been driving him out of his mind for the better part of two hours.

"Sensitizing, indeed," Ignis remarks, thoughtfully. His hand's still on his cock – stroking now, playing idly with the tip. The sight is downright mesmerizing, and if he doesn't stop wasting time and pound Prompto until he's screaming, he may actually cry with frustration.

"Yeah," Prompto manages. "Feels great. Now can you please get over here?"

And Ignis, thank all the Six and every one of their Messengers, actually complies. He doesn't bother undressing any further – just crawls onto the bed, shirt open, pants undone, nothing visible but a swath of his toned chest and the tantalizing jut of his cock.

Prompto spreads his legs, blatantly hopeful, but Ignis is taking his time – lines himself up and then just lingers, rubbing the head of his cock against Prompto like a tease and a promise. 

Prompto whines. He shifts forward, and lets out a breath that's shuddering and uneven. "Iggy," he manages. "Please. Come on. Please? Can we just –"

That's when Ignis finally sinks himself in. Prompto loses the rest of the sentence midway, coherence interrupted by an appreciative, drawn-out moan. His legs come up to wrap around Ignis' back, and they close there and cling, trying to draw him even closer.

"All right?" Ignis asks him, gently, and runs a soothing hand down his side.

"Yeah," says Prompto, voice ragged. "But, like, you gotta – Just move, Iggy, I can't –"

Ignis moves. It's steady and even and deep, and so, so good. Prompto bites his lip and throws his head back, and Ignis takes it as an invitation, kissing down his neck, sucking at the spot just above the collar bone that drives Prompto crazy.

It's incredible, but it's not quite enough. He needs – something. Faster, or harder, or a different angle.

"Iggy," he pants, trying to ask for more, but he can't quite seem to get enough air to form the words. "Iggy."

Ignis is starting to show the strain, himself: the way his face goes drawn and introspective when he's trying to hold back, the way his brows furrow, just slightly, in concentration. One of his hands is wandering up and down Prompto's side, like he's trying to map him, to set aside the lines and ridges for future study.

He's so close that Prompto can count the little moles that dot the skin of his face. A strand of his hair, usually so immaculate, has come free from the upward curl of its styling, beginning to droop.

"Iggy," says Prompto, or maybe he just mouths it. Maybe desire's burned away his voice, and he's just going to lie here and want, cock hard enough to cut diamonds, for all of eternity.

Ignis leans forward, then – shifts, deliberately. Suddenly, the angle's just right. Suddenly, he's hitting that spot inside Prompto that has him seeing stars. His back arches, tight and sudden like a bow. His toes curl against the blankets. His hips jerk up to meet every thrust, and his voice must not be gone, after all, because he's pretty sure that's him, making those embarrassing noises.

Then Ignis' hand trails down between them, to where Prompto's cock is a slippery mess, covered in lube and precome, desperate for any hint of contact. He curls his fingers around it –  takes a firm grip and begins to stroke. 

It's incredible. It's the best thing Prompto's ever felt. 

It sends him catapulting over the edge – has him coming so hard the whole world seems to go distant and swimmy, nothing but unimportant background noise. All that matters is the pleasure thundering through him like a freight train, leaving him breathless and lightheaded.

Above him, Ignis keeps moving, face a picture of concentration. He works Prompto through his orgasm – keeps going after, until every thrust is borderline too much on his oversensitized body.

Then Ignis is coming, too, head bowed, stifling a half-aborted groan.

When they're finished, hazy and sated with the afterglow, Ignis sags against him for a heartbeat or two, a warm, steady weight. Prompto closes his eyes and revels in it.

There's a soft touch against his hair – Ignis' lips, pressing a kiss to his temple.

Then Ignis reaches up toward the headboard, making quick work of the suspenders. The cock rings take a little more doing; they're elaborate, but Prompto's going soft by now, and Ignis has clever hands. He coaxes them off and sets them aside with the other toys for cleaning, then stretches out beside Prompto on the bed.

"Everything you hoped for?" Ignis murmurs.

"And then some," Prompto says, threading wiry arms around him. "Dude, you don't do things by halves."

"I've something of a predilection for being thorough," Ignis admits, maybe just a touch embarrassed.

Prompto could probably write a whole article about how much of an understatement that is, if he wasn't so tired. But he's feeling wrung out in a good way, languid and sleepy.

So instead of answering, he leans up to press a kiss to the line of Ignis' jaw, and he tucks his head into the space between Ignis' neck and his shoulder, and he steals a few sweet seconds before the inevitable moment when Ignis will start making noises about being responsible again and announce they need a shower.

**Author's Note:**

> A thousand, thousand thanks to the incredible Kaciart, who was kind enough to draw me art for this fic. Thank you so much?! It's amaaaaaaazing. I'm screaming forever. 8D
> 
> (Viewer beware: It's beautiful, but very NSFW.)
> 
> [Ignis taking Prompto apart](http://kacir18.tumblr.com/post/162642544863/prompto-rocks-back-against-it-and-ignis-complies)


End file.
